Lord of the Silent Kingdom (40 page)

The blond woman sighed wearily. She came to stand in front of him. “Don’t you remember anything, Gisors?”

“Gisors?” he asked.

“The name my son gave you. I’m not sure why. It’s an eastern name. As is Heris. We’ll still call you Piper.

You’re comfortable with that and it’s the name everyone knows. So there’ll be no slipups. It’s much too late to have you emerge as the long-lost child.”

Hecht wanted to argue. To deny. To go back to his stories about Duarnenia. He had done an inspired job of selling. These people just were not buying.

So he went silent. He would admit nothing. No matter what. However great the shock. He was Sha-lug.

He was the most promising product of the Vibrant Spring School.

Heris said, “The slavers were Deves. That’s how they got a ship with so many men aboard into the harbor. That’s why Father hated Deves. That’s why he was in Sonsa. Everybody thinks it was because the Brotherhood wanted to plunder the Deves. He let them think that. He exploited their greed. But he came over from Runch because he’d heard that some Deves who financed that raid were in Sonsa.

“He was cruel and clever. And devious. He used the Brotherhood of War to engineer his revenge. And no one ever saw that. Because he gave them what they wanted.”

Hecht betrayed no emotion. It was too absurd to be true.

They thought they knew who he was. Some Devedian who did know must have betrayed him. Or Anna had. Or Titus Consent. This would be a trick to get him to open up.

“Once he realized who you must be, your father … He forgave you the hurt you did him.”

Could the Sha-lug Else Tage have fired the blast that crippled and slowly killed Grade Drocker had he suspected that the Special Office sorcerer was his natural father?

He could have. Knowing no more than that. He had had no reason to love Grade Drocker. Nor had Drocker had any reason to love him. The man had tried to kill him only days earlier.

“He insisted on directing the Calziran campaign. He wanted to shield you and bring you along.”

Hecht had a hundred questions. He did not mouth a one.

He would not anger anyone by arguing. Neither would he concede anything.

“He failed. Once it became obvious that he wouldn’t last long enough, I came down and took over. I’ve tried to bring you along. I’ve celebrated a few successes. But never those I hoped to enjoy. My grandson has become the most important soldier in the Chaldarean world. But he won’t admit that he’s part of my family. And, after generations of breeding the most powerful sorcerers in the Episcopal Chaldarean realm, the line has burped up children with less grasp of the power than your average pig farmer.”

Hecht took a calming breath. “I thought we were going to investigate the mystery of the unexpectedly healthy Cloven Februaren.”

Delari and his granddaughter exchanged exasperated glances. Delari said, “As you wish, Piper. As you wish. You can’t be forced. But you’d better assess the risks of persevering in refusing to admit the truth.”

Was that a threat? Or just a statement of fact? Or both?

He began to catalog everyone who might know that in his once upon a time he had been Captain Else Tage of the Sha-lug.

The possible number was dishearteningly large.

He said, “If it is necessary, I’ll be Gisors. I’ve learned that sometimes I have to be what others want me to be.”

That had worked when he was a prisoner of the Grail Emperor. That had worked when he was employed by Bronte Doneto. To a lesser extent, it had worked with the Arniena, the Bruglioni, and when he had commanded the City Regiment during the Calziran Crusade. The trick was to make people see what they wanted to see while he got what needed doing done.

Principatè Muniero Delari wanted no illusions. He wanted what he wanted. His intensity made that clear.

“Heris. Assemble the staff. In the kitchen. We’ll start there.”

The staffers were not happy. The cook was in her nightdress, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She was not afraid so demand, “Will this take long? I start my days early.”

“How long it takes is up to you.”

Turking and Felske were locals of middle age. Felske was graying and Turking would soon be bald.

Service in the town house was all they had ever known. Unlike Mrs. Creedon, they had not been wakened.

The Principal asked, “Is there anyone living here that I haven’t been told about?”

The staff exchanged appropriately puzzled glances.

“Well?”

Mrs. Creedon said, “I’m not sure I understand what vou’re asking.”

“I didn’t stammer. Nor did I obfuscate. Who is living in my house without my knowledge or permission?”

The cook shook her head. The couple looked at one another, shrugged. Turking said, “No one, Your Grace. We wouldn’t presume.”

“Yet a man of medium stature, resembling my son, middle forties to fifty, always wearing brown, has been seen coming and going here.”

The servants wilted under Delari’s glare. Mrs. Creedon managed, “Could it possibly
be
young master Drocker, Your Grace?”

“It could not. I supervised the execution of his final wishes. I watched his cremation.” The Principatè glanced back, “Ideas, you two?”

Heris asked, “Has anything unusual happened? Unexplained noises? Food gone missing? Has anyone seen a ghost?”

The servants looked worried. More worried, and a little trapped.

Delari observed, “We seem to be onto something, now. Mrs. Creedon. Tell me your ghost story.

Turking, Felske, don’t interrupt. But signal me if you have something to add. Start, woman.”

She did not have much, after all. Unexplained noises. Footsteps heard. Nothing there when she looked.

A feeling she was being watched. The usual. But no poltergeist activity. No intrusion into the realm of the living.

“Felske?”

“The ghost don’t seem malicious. Not like you hear they can be. It’s like it just don’t care.”

“I see. I suppose that fits.”

Hecht asked, “Could it be a ghost?”

“No. Mrs. Creedon. Where did you sense the spirit?”

Hecht became unsettled. There might be some sizable Instrumentality of the Night afoot. His encounters with that side of reality were never pleasant. But his amulet was no more active than usual around Principatè Delari. His most improbable grandfather.

Delari consulted the others. Then, “You, too, Heris?”

“I don’t know that part of the house. But I’ve felt the watching eyes.”

The old man met Hecht’s gaze. “Let’s go see.”

Out of earshot of the staff, Hecht said, “Your Grace, I could never publicly be the man you want.”

“That’s why you’ll always be Piper Hecht. Soldier with an angel.”

As was common with the homes of the Brothen rich, the Principatè’s town house surrounded a central garden. The establishment was smaller than those of the Five Families. It lacked a curtain wall to mask it from the street. The garden had not been maintained — except for the cook’s herb bed. Though not much could be told by the light of the earthenware lamps everyone carried.

Delari said, “I need to invest in some upkeep.”

The wing they entered definitely needed the kiss of mop and broom. Delari volunteered, “If we have a squatter he’ll be here. This wing hasn’t been used in ages.”

Heris observed, “They wouldn’t come here if they bought it was haunted.”

Not only was cleaning needed, so was plaster restoration and paintwork.

The dust on the floor showed signs of regular traffic.

Delari said, “The staff still ought to be doing more. This ghost hasn’t bitten anyone yet.”

Heris said, “They don’t have permission to spend your money. Or to bring workmen in.”

“You do. Now. Take charge. Piper? What?”

“Back there.”

Something clicked. Lamplight glittered off disturbed dust.

“A door,” Hecht said. “It must have been open a crack. I didn’t catch that.” His amulet had begun to itch.

The itch turned to pain momentarily.

Delari asked, “Are you all right, Piper?”

“Stomach spasm. I have them sometimes.”

The Principatè frowned. Before he followed up, Heris asked, “Do we want to open this, Grandfather?”

Her voice squeaked. She was terrified.

“Huh? Oh. Yes. Go ahead. I just said he hasn’t bitten anybody.”

Bright light blasted into the corridor when she pulled on the door.

Hecht leapt past her, into a small, square room. He heard soft laughter. “How come the light went away?”

“It was supposed to startle and distract us.” But it had not prevented Hecht from seeing a man duck out.

“Did you see that? Was that him? Is he real?”

“Real, or one vigorous ghost. Either way, definitely the Lord of the Silent Kingdom.”

“Cloven Februaren.”

“Yes.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Your great-great-grandfather.”

“Still alive. Looking younger than Grade Drocker when I met him.”

“I don’t understand, either.”

Hecht said, “I thought you were Lord of the Silent Kingdom.”

“I was. Never comfortably. But I’m not it if he’s still here. He was the original. He was the one who charged the Construct.”

“Uhm?”

“I don’t have the flare. My father or me. We weren’t dramatic enough. The program is largely forgotten now.”

The program might be, but not the dread. The entire Collegium feared Muniero Delari.

“Come, Heris.” Delari scanned the little room. It had a door in each wall. Floor and walls were a polished marble that, by lamplight, appeared to be the shade called flesh. Veined with gray, like cheese.

Principatè Delari began to chuckle. “Definitely his sense of humor at work here. This door opens onto the street. On the west side of the house. Which he could use whenever he wanted without being noticed.

This door, that he just went out, will put us in a hallway behind the outer face of the house. Designed with defense in mind, a long time ago, and entirely impractical today. It will have little glazed windows that, at noon, let in only enough light to prove that the staff don’t keep the place up.”

Hecht and Heris awaited instructions. The Principatè eyed them, then chuckled again. “I can be a right bastard sometimes, can’t I?”

“You said it, Grandfather,” Heris said. “I won’t repeat it.”

“Ouch! Clever girl. He went that way so we’ll check the outside hallway. He’ll have left whatever clues he thinks we need.”

“Your Grace?” Hecht asked.

“Oh, do dispense with all that, Piper. Go. I’m right behind you. For what good that will do if the Ninth Unknown is in a bad mood.”

Hecht pushed through the doorway. The hallway beyond met Principatè Delari’s gloomy expectations.

He asked, “Is there still some point to this? He can stay ahead as long as he wants. We have to be careful. He doesn’t. You have sorcerer’s skills. This would be a time to tap them.”

The itch under his amulet and the unease he felt when he peered into the clotted darkness led him to suggest that.

“He’s the superior practitioner, Piper. He’d spank me.”

“Do something, Grandfather. Piper is right. We’ll be at this all night, otherwise.”

The old man turned grim. And pale.

The hallway lit up suddenly, bright as day.

The man in brown, hair standing straight out, eyes bulging, lunged out of a doorway a dozen feet ahead.

He croaked, “What have you done?”

Delari said, “Come meet my grandchildren.”

The man in brown regained his aplomb. “Took you long enough.”

From distress to calm to seriously irritated took scarcely a dozen seconds. Hecht growled, “Don’t do that!” when he thought the man in brown was likely to respond unpleasantly. The man stopped, startled.

Hecht asked, “Is this really Februaren?”

“It is. Looking pretty much the way he did the day I became his apprentice. I thought you were dead, Grandfather.”

“You were supposed to, Muno. Along with everyone else.”

“Why?”

“It’s easier to roam around and stick your nose in when people think you’re gone. So. You’ve found me out. Come on in. We’ll talk about what needs doing.”

Hecht said, “Not everyone thinks you’re dead. Principatè Mongoz recognized you in the mob in the Closed Ground.”

“Hugo was born a pain in the ass. He was half the reason I went missing. He built his career on trying to reduce my funding. And it was all personal. He stopped being an asshole as soon as Humberto took over.”

“My father,” Delari clarified. “His son.”

If there was any truth to the lineage proclaimed tonight, Hecht was just the latest in a long line of bastards.

At least he had avoided becoming an Episcopal priest. And a sorcerer. Thanks be to God and his mother, he supposed.

Cloven Februaren led them into small but comfortable quarters with a lived-in look. There were no seats.

“I don’t have company,” he explained without being asked. “And you wouldn’t have caught on, Muno, if this boy didn’t make it so damned hard to protect him. When some seriously deadly people want him dead.”

“Name two,” Hecht challenged. “And tell me why.”

“Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. Why isn’t clear, even with my insight. Something dark is stirring in Dreanger.

Something neither Gordimer nor the Kaif are aware of.” Hecht did not demur. That fit his own suspicions. “Then you have Immaculate II, Anne of Menand, Duke Tormond in the Connec, and everyone else who’d prefer a Patriarchy with no power to enforce the Patriarchal will. You frighten people everywhere.

“Finally, there would be Rudenes Schneidel in Artecipea. Whose motives are as opaque as those of er-Rashal. He’s hiding deep in the High Athaphile, at Arn Bedu, in country never completely tamed by the emperors. It’s impossible to spy on him. While Schneidel’s motives may be opaque, recall that sorcerers like Masant el-Seyhan and the woman Starkden also tried to dispatch you.”

“All right. I’m not sure I buy all that …”

“There are more. The queue seems endless. And none of the would-be killers know why you’re needed dead.” Februaren added, “For every attack that came close enough for you to notice I’ve foiled a dozen.”

“Why?”

“You’re family.”